


He Was Human

by PhantomPhan16



Category: Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 03:11:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5769115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhantomPhan16/pseuds/PhantomPhan16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson's thoughts on Holmes being human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Was Human

**Author's Note:**

> The Holmes and Watson in this fic are the ones portrayed by Sir Christopher Lee and Patrick Macnee from the two movies that were called The Golden Years.

Sherlock Holmes. He was a detective, the best, and yet he remained mostly a mystery to those around him. Except for me. I have seen beyond his manner and habits, beyond the mask of stone, beyond his cold exterior to the man within.

I have seen what no else has even imagined lay behind the outward ways of Sherlock Holmes. I have seen the emotions, the soul, and the heart of the man he is behind the walls of his loner nature. I have seen that, like everyone else, he is human.

Never did I imagine who he was on the inside, the man he kept hidden from the world.

I thought I was dreaming or hallucinating when I saw his eyes, usually intense, focused, and cold, soften, become warm, and look at me with fondness. I thought I had lost my mind when his voice, usually void of emotion, except in rare cases, and strong, became gentle and almost brotherly.

No one could have guessed that such a tender heart lay behind his cold exterior. At first I didn't believe it, but it was right there in front of me. His soul was bared before me.

Who could have imagined that he had a great heart to match his great mind?

Despite having lived and worked with him for many years, I could and did not. Looking back, I now see.

What else could have driven him to use his great knowledge to benefit others rather than himself?

Nothing; except his heart.

I now see another great difference between him and Mycroft. Mycroft may be even more intelligent than Holmes, but Holmes has a greater heart.

Even after seeing his heart, I still never expected to find that I held such a large part of it. Even these years later, it's humbling to think about.

How someone like me could become so important to him is beyond me, but I suppose I really shouldn't question it, considering that he himself held a vast part of my own heart. It's still a mystery as to how such a man, one so outwardly cold and almost unfeeling, became such a large part of not only my life but my heart as well.

Our relationship started off tense and strictly professional. I never expected to come to love him as a brother. I certainly didn't expect him to return the feeling just as strongly, if not stronger.

He was a passionate man. He put his all into everything he did, even if he didn't really see a point to it. He did the same in his friendships. He gave them his all.

Never in all my years with him, though, did I ever imagine that within such a man, cold and powerful, was a kind heart. Even more surprising, however, was discovering his gentle conscience.

That day his heart and soul, the real him, had been bared to me was the day I was shot in the leg by James Winter, or 'Killer Evans'.

Holmes had been quite distressed and wracked with guilt over my injury. The amount of guilt he felt was how I discovered his shockingly gentle conscience. To think that a man like him, who had seen done and what he had, would, or even could, have such a gentle conscience and not break was astounding to say the least.

That day was the day I finally began to _truly_ understand my dear friend.

To have a gentle conscience and not break from all that he had seen, experienced, and done, one would have to have a will and spirit of iron, and he certainly did, that I had learned fairly soon after meeting him.

I understood why he was usually so cold and practically emotionless on the outside. He was hiding his true feelings, how things we had seen, heard, experienced, and done truly bothered him. Acting like nothing ever bothered him was the only way he knew how to hide that they really _did_ bother him.

I approached him about it, but he dismissed it, as I expected. He was still a loner by nature, and I don't think anything would have ever changed that.

It never became more apparent than it did in his final moments. Never did it show so strongly as the day he gave his life for me.

As I held him as he died, with his remaining strength, he told me that my idea of why he acted the way he did was correct. He told me that I was his best friend, and that he wouldn't change a single moment of our time together for anything in the world. Nothing was kept secret. He poured his heart and soul out to me.

With his final breath, he said he would wait for me on the other side, and he called me… brother.

I have seen what no other living person, not even Mycroft, has seen. I have seen the heart and soul of Sherlock Holmes. I have seen _real_ Sherlock Holmes. I have seen that Sherlock Holmes… was human.


End file.
